The Sahara Intercept: A Ross Brannan Thriller (The Secret Cold War Book 5) by R G Ainslee

Author:R G Ainslee [Ainslee, R G]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-06-27T16:00:00+00:00

24 ~ N'Djamena

Thursday, 9 October 1980, N'Djamena, Chad

War is hell and Chad was at war. It wasn't clear whose side was in charge, not that it mattered. This was a third-world war, not World War III, just another nasty brutal conflict. Call it a civil war, proxy war, rebellion, invasion, take your choice. To the little guys, the ones doing the fighting, the wretched of the earth, it didn't matter, dead is dead.

N'Djamena airport was in disarray, bombarded by air and land, few buildings remained intact, the rest a collection of ramshackle shells. We found ourselves in what was left of the terminal building, standing before a table, hands bound, awaiting our fate.

You have a problem when you land an airplane at an airport without permission. The situation is further complicated if you arrive in a stolen aircraft. If the airport happens to be in a war zone in a third-world country and you're carrying weapons — you're in a heap of trouble.

The officer sitting at the table, a heavily built man with speckles of grey in his hair, dressed in a crisp new khaki uniform, eyed us with contempt. His eyes had an almost empty look, not fanatical, but conveying a disconcerting sense of menace. A look I had seen before, one that embodied mindless unpredictability, dangerously coupled with the power of life and death.

I couldn't understand what he said, but his French sounded crisp and precise, a man with some education. Judging from the tone of his voice, he wasn't happy with our arrival.

Over the past few years, I'd been in close scrapes, even detained, but this was my first serious experience as a prisoner. I was in unfamiliar territory, consumed by a sense of isolation and desperation.

The officer drew on a cigarette, ironically a pack of Camels. He tilted his head back, exhaled, and continued his diatribe, pounding the table with his fist at regular intervals. He appeared to have some serious anger management issues.

I scanned the walls: a few pictures of airliners, far away destinations, and was surprised to note, no picture of the current leader. Maybe things change too fast in N'Djamena. Here today, gone tomorrow. I was afraid that could just as easily apply to us.

When I tried to ask Jack, what was going on, a camouflage clad soldier doled out a wallop to the kidneys with the now familiar butt of an AK-47. The blow brought on a case of severe nausea as I fought back the urge to throw up. Pain from the crack to my skull had subsided, replaced by a dull ache. My head swam. I struggled to stay on my feet.

After a final high-pitched harangue, they hustled us out of the building and a young lieutenant marched us back to the metal storage shed that served as our cell. The so-called accommodations wouldn't have made a good goat shed. However, multiple bullet holes offered much appreciated ventilation and an eye to the outside world.

The lieutenant, a man in his early twenties, thin with ebony skin, ordered a soldier to untie our hands.

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